From Blood, Power
by OnWithTheButter
Summary: Norway created an aura of fear and dominance around him, and the new-found power went straight to his ego. Would anything bring him back down to earth? Viking age!Norway Warnings: gore, total disregard for human life
1. Chapter 1

"Oh, for crying out loud, Denmark! Why do you have to be such a coward?" Norway was still short for his physical age, only about thirteen, but he walked up with an air of arrogance to his taller, yet similarly aged neighbor, yanking the bow from his hands and breaking it in two. "You can't expect anything if you're too scared to step right in and fight," he scolded as he handed an axe to the Dane.

"Nor… But I…"

"But you nothing! Are you afraid of being hit? Are you afraid of death? What kind of warrior do you think you are?! Arrows shot from a distance are only good for frightening them in the beginning. Once the battle has arrived, you have to get down and fight like a man." He pulled out a knife and held it threateningly close, seething. "Don't you ever 'but' me again, don't forget who's in charge here."

"Yes, brother!"

"Good, now stop playing with the weapons. I'm going to bathe."

* * *

"Is Sweden coming?"

"No," was the young Norwegian's answer, sitting at a fire with the southernly friend, combing bits of lye soap from his hair.

"How come?"

"He's taking off on his own and going east. Good for him."

"Does he have something against us? He always seems to have his own plans when you want to go."

"More like against me. He thinks I'm too brutal. I think he's just a whining wimp." The young blond stared into the flames emotionlessly as he spoke.

The Dane mumbled under his breath, barely loud enough to be heard, "Maybe he's right…"

Norway shot a harsh glare at the other, making him cringe and look away. He then blew a few strands of bleached hair from his face, speaking again in that monotone. "Human lives are worthless. They're born with little purpose, and die long before their time. All I do is give then a chance to be a hero and maybe end their pitiful existence. I don't even kill close to a quarter of them anyway." He narrowed his deep blue eyes, picking up a twig. "Can't you imagine, Den? They're all guaranteed to die, they only last a few decades and then," he tossed the twig to the very edge of the fire to watch it smolder and disintegrate to a pile of ashes, "they're gone. If they're lucky, they'll see Valhalla, so I might as well send them off with that heroic last battle."

Without the slightest of ill meaning, only youthful curiosity, Denmark ventured a question. "Well, why do _you_ do it? What's in it for you?"

"Me? Everything. My land is poor and my people need more to live full lives." His eyes glinted as a smirk graced his mouth. "I deserve everything I take. One day, they'll all see. Peaceful trade and such is nice for ones like Sweden, but it gives him no say. Fear is a powerful force, and I intend to make good use of it."

Denmark returned to a smile. "If I stick with you, I can be your ally, right?"

Norway gave a simple shrug. "If you're trustworthy, sure." Crawling beside his friend, he took a blanket and rolled himself up in it. "I'm going to sleep now. Watch the fire and guard me, my new ally. Do a good job and we'll set sail tomorrow."

* * *

Blood covered the immortal boy. His soulless eyes surveyed the reddened landscape, as his own surviving people had gone to collect their spoils. Everywhere he looked, bodies littered the landscape and he was the lone one standing. He couldn't help the smirk and chuckle.

"I hope you all thank me."

Running a hand through his soft hair, he pulled some of the not-yet dried blood out of it and began to examine it on his hand. The crimson substance stuck to his fingers as he rubbed it, smelled it…

He started to move among the corpses. He kicked one, a man who had struggled and gave up early. He bent down to another, sword still in hand, deceased eyes forever staring into his opponent's face.

"You did well. May your spirit continue on bravely in battle till Ragnarök."

Wandering amongst the sea of death, he looked over all. He didn't feel pain at losing his own people, nor did he feel for those who died defending their own from the raiders from the North. He felt no joy or elation in victory either. The bloodshed was worthless to him, yet he couldn't pull himself away. Taking a stand on a small rock, he crossed his arms and glazed over the green covered in red once more, and addressed the entire crowd gathered at his feet.

"You all look so pitiful. You were brave, you were strong, you were heroes, and now you sleep. I'm sure every one of you was full of life and now you lie here lifeless, your innards spilled out and strewn across the land. We'll take back our own and be sure they're treated as they should in preparation for a post-life journey, but you outsiders, you foreigners shall lie as a remembrance…of me. Never forget that I, the Norse, did this."

"You're sick."

The voice caught Norway off-guard, spinning around to look down at a redhead much his age and size, glaring at him from the foot of the rock.

"Do you find joy in meaningless slaughter, barbarian?"

Norway's hand moved to the hilt of a sword hanging at his side. "I'd suggest you remember who you're talking to…Scotch."

Scotland only narrowed his eyes even further in ire. "Those were my people! Gone! Why?! What do you want from us?! All you want is to leave a trail of spilled blood wherever you go!"

The metal rung out as the sword was rapidly drawn and pointed in the Celt's face. "If that were true, I wouldn't have addressed you before I scattered your pieces across the sky. I wasn't going to touch you personally, but now you have challenged me."

He jumped down from the rock, taking a quick aim and sing at his opponent's collar, a move blocked by a bare hand. Scotland involuntarily cried out as the blade dug into his palm. Cold, ruthless eyes watched him as he tried to stem the bleeding, sword dangling at the attacker's side unthreateningly, yet ready to spring another assault.

"You have no humanity…nothing but a bloodthirsty rogue…" Scotland cringed, speaking through clenched teeth as the blood began to drip into his clothes and onto the ground. "To think you attack a defenseless and unarmored man."

"Let's not forget who confronted me. You asked for it." Norway picked up the wounded hand, wiping away some of the blood and drawing more whimpers and seething from the redhead as he touched the deep cut, holding tightly onto the hand even as he pulled away in pain. When he let it go again, he examined the blood of his fingertips for a moment, then wiped it off on the Scot's face. "Keep your own blood, coward."

Angered again by this invader's calm insults, he drew out a dagger with his left hand and shakily pointed it at his rival. "Leave me alone! I've never done anything to you, so go home and leave me alone!"

Norway only snickered. "You seem to be ignorant on how the world works." He swung his sword again, leaving a clean gash in the other's shoulder, rendering both arms useless.

The blow sent the young Scotsman stumbling backward. Once he caught his balance, he didn't dare to step closer again, instead shouting from the distance. "You've won this time, Norseman! But you can't kill me, you can't destroy me! I don't know why you must do this, so I beg you to stop! We never asked for trouble!"

With that, Scotland took off in a run. _Good for him,_ Norway thought, _at least he knows who really has the power, who really is in control._ He looked back around at the slain at his feet, the people already returning to take them back for burial rites. With a simple nod of acknowledgment to his countrymen, he began to walk off on his own, down to a creek. Removing the stained bearskin from his body and setting it aside, he knelt down at the water's edge, splashing it up into his face, wiping away the traces of the battle from his fair skin. Then taking off the boots, belts and cloak, he sat in a simple tunic and rolled-up trousers, dipping his feet in the crystal water. Using the reflection of the water, he took out a comb and started brushing through his hair for a short moment before slumping over in the grass, becoming the still, peaceful image of a child.

* * *

**A/N: Honoring my promise to work on any of my plot bunnies that someone likes (and because the requester is a very awesome person uwu), I have started this story too! orz I now have so many on-going stories to work on…**

**Notes (because ~the more you know~):**

**It is generally an accepted fact that bows weren't used extensively by the vikings. Because of beliefs and cultural norms, it was much more honorable to fight hand to hand. You gotta remember that they weren't afraid to risk their lives, as Valhalla was for warriors who died in battle and they would feast with Odin till the end of the world (Ragnarök). People who were dying of old age or illness sometimes would kill themselves in hopes of tricking the goddess Hel into thinking they died in battle. It was…kinda a big deal.**

**Blond hair was very coveted in their culture, and lye was used to bleach their hair, though, depending on one's natural hair color, lye-bleached hair usually took on a red or strawberry tone, rather than the platinum color we think of when we think of bleached hair in modern times. The old Scandinavians were very clean and groomed compared to the majority of Europe at the time.**

**This story isn't meant to be entirely accurate historically, but the plot does follow events of history. **

**Norway is and will be portrayed as a border-line berserk, which will be expanded upon later. Berserks were warriors who were noted for a trance-like fury in battle, noted for fighting without armor and seemed to be invincible. The common image of a viking as insane barbarians comes from descriptions of the berserks. They were also called "Odin's warriors" because of the similarities and were said to shapeshift.  
**

**~Butter~**


	2. Chapter 2

"Nor, you're being lazy…" Denmark cautiously spoke to the other teenaged nation resting casually on his back as the other worked at rowing the ship.

"I'm not," Norway answered unperturbed, "I'm saving energy, working up spells. None of you will win anything if I don't do this."

The Dane frowned, then tried to shrug it off, fearing an argument would stir up the other's temper. Yes, he was rightfully afraid of Norway, but he wasn't going to admit it. Yes, Norway was more skilled and more successful than any other warrior he'd ever seen, but he still thought that he needed to be beaten, at least once, to take him off that high, arrogant pedestal he placed himself on. They were all equals anyway, there was no need for Norway to lord his strength, power and accomplishments over them. If he hadn't have witnessed over and over what that nation was capable of, he would have told him off. If he didn't genuinely like and respect Norway otherwise, he would have took off on his own like Sweden.

And there he lay, appearing to be simply dozing, but when one looked closely, his lips soundlessly formed chants from memory. When the ship finally came ashore, he quietly picked up his bag and wandered off alone. He would return, ready for battle in a short while.

They had decided to combine their forces for this raid. Norway, dressed in his usual and blood-stained bearskin, remained silent. Anyone who opened their mouth to him was shot down by a powerful glare. Anyone who disobeyed his orders was immediately thrown to the ground. There were rumors, and Denmark knew them to be true, that he had even beaten comrades to death, simply for suggesting something contrary to his wishes.

_A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine._

Suddenly, Norway stopped in his tracks. He had spotted a plaque on a church that seemed familiar. Indeed, the same words were engraved and posted outside quite a few of the churches in this country.

"Does anyone know what it reads?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

Several of the band of warriors came forth, but none could decipher it. It wasn't only the language which was vastly different, the alphabet was as well. The best they could do was declare it said something about Northmen.

He snickered. "Do you suppose they call down protection for themselves from me?" He stopped again, scanning the landscape, then returned to walk by Denmark's side. "Almost a hundred and a half years ago, we left this place empty." A cruel smirk twisted on the Norwegian's face as he recited the tale. "We took the gold, the jewels, the clothing… The people, they couldn't even fight back. A big massacre, but there were bigger. We left bodies, some were still intact, but some…they had the entrails hung out, the blood made dregs to stop up the wounds, but it ended up everywhere." He gave a presumptuous humph. "It was quite the bloodbath."

Denmark pulled up a fakes smile. He'd heard hundreds of these stories by now. He didn't understand why Norway always had to tell them, but he had become used to them. They weren't shocking anymore. The worst was knowing that they were all true.

Norway fell quiet again, his eyes narrowed and face darkened. They were nearing where they had planned to spring their attack.

And once again, Denmark would witness how ruthless his friend was. Ruthless and undefeatable, without a doubt. His screaming alone could frighten most people, his boldness to dive into the very heat of the battle was remarkable. It was again that Denmark was thankful that he wasn't on this nation's bad side. Norway didn't choose his opponents, he wasn't calculating, he simply attacked the closest person to him, sometimes taking on two or three at once. He wore nothing to protect himself, and took blows without being fazed or even blinking. He was truly terrifying, the best warrior there ever was.

Yet Denmark didn't envy him. He knew him well enough to know that his strength came at a cost. Norway always had to be carried home after these battles, it took him days to recover from fatigue, usually longer to recover from the injuries he suffered. If anyone held a grudge against him for the atrocities he committed, these would have been perfect opportunities to exact revenge, and so, the near-catatonic spells were kept secret.

Even though Denmark was his closest friend, he didn't understand Norway, nor did he even know what all he did. He secluded himself, kept secrets, and often left on his own without ever telling what he did and where he went. Very little made him smile, and almost nothing seemed to interest him. He had been raised different from Denmark and Sweden, yet somehow was much alike them, though he didn't show it. He genuinely liked them, but in his twisted mind, would only act and speak like they were merely inferiors, not friends.

* * *

"Hey," Norway greeted as he walked through the doorway, as if he hadn't have disappeared for weeks.

Denmark and Sweden echoes back a "hey", also unconcerned that their friend had been gone for a long while only to suddenly reappear without acting like anything was unusual. This was normal, they barely looked up from their meals to greet him.

He sat between them, taking some pieces of food from Denmark and nonchalantly started eating as well, staring at a wall. After a few minutes, he spoke up. "We found a new land. Snowland, I called it." He took out a crudely drawn map of the northern seas, with the new coast marked on it and lay it out for the others' viewing. "It's a very nice land."

Sweden had a greater interest in the land than Denmark, who contented himself to give the map a quick look, nod and go back to his food. Sweden bent down close to the paper, examining the drawings. "Snowland, huh?"

"Mm… It began to snow as we left."

"How big is it? The land, that is."

"We didn't stay that long. Could be a small island, could be an entirely new land."

The Swede almost took on a mocking tone of voice. "And what kind of bloodbath did you perform there?"

Norway clearly understood the criticism of those words and cast a correctly glare in his direction. "There _was_ no one else there, dunce."

Sweden didn't back down from him. "That doesn't sound like a trip you'd enjoy then."

Norway sat up on his knees to hover threateningly above his challenger. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am _not_ a savage."

Sweden stared back, though noncombatantly, then averted his gaze when the Norwegian's eyes narrowed even further in ire. "Okay, fine…"

Norway resumed his normal sitting position with a triumphant snort and nose turned upward arrogantly.

Sweden knew better than to set the Norseman off as well, though he saw him quite differently than Denmark. To the Swede, Norway had innocently stumbled onto much more than he could handle. He didn't think the youngest of the three even realized how off-putting he had become in his proud attitude, and he definitely didn't understand how fragile life was. The nation he represented was disjointed and ill-fitted together, there was no unity, no collective whole that the boy functioned as. Sweden theorized to himself that his mind was still underdeveloped and childish, he had yet gained neither a conscience nor compassion. There was no way to change him, either time would mature him or he would continue in a path of self-destruction. Absolutely nothing he could do would awaken a humanity within Norway that didn't exist to begin with. Still, he couldn't help but try, no matter how many years would prove that changing him was impossible. Maybe the only thing that could would be another one exactly like him: stubborn, cold and unafraid to force their will onto everyone else. Only then would his path in life be decided.

Despite it all, Sweden was fond of Norway. Perhaps those two were more like brothers than either of them with anyone else, complete with centuries-perfected sibling rivalry. They were similar in all of the small, subtle ways, yet clashed over their larger differences. Despite criticizing each other constantly, they had an unspoken trust for one another.

It wasn't like Denmark was left out. Norway openly preferred his company to Sweden's, and was more likely to include him in his thoughts and plans. Whereas Sweden had treated him like a little brother, Denmark acted as a best friend and equal, and he had grown up wanting a friend, despite his self-centeredness and quickness to shed blood, or maybe even because of it, as he didn't want to be looked down upon for the way he operated.

* * *

**A/N: I have no idea if "A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine" was ever inscribed or whatever like I portrayed it, it was simply for interest's sake that I wrote it like that. And it translates to "From the fury of the Northmen deliver us, O Lord" in Latin.**

**As if anyone thought that I could write this without mentioning Iceland at least once… XD Snowland (Snæland) was the original name given to Iceland by the first Norwegian to find the island. Imo, Iceland wasn't born at this point in history yet…but the character will most likely be mentioned later.**

**I am so entirely sure that this chapter is so historically inaccurate, but…whatever. Really. Whatever. It's fiction.**

**I hope my lovely readers enjoy it anyway uwu**

**~Butter~**


	3. Chapter 3

A garnet rolled between thin fingers, it was held up to the sun at different angles, all in all, the young man was impressed with his winnings. After having cut away and pried the gem from the gold that framed it, he had his last idea of raw beauty, from a land much farther than he had ever gone before. Funny how that worked, through the hard work of people maybe hundreds of years before, this jewel had made many travels through the hands of generations of traders and now resided in the young grasp of the one that was feared. By the sheer power he had accumulated over centuries, formed from the spilled blood of countless lives, he could have anything he wanted.

"What you got, Nor?" Denmark plopped down beside him, leaning close to the garnet to get a better look.

Just that quickly, Norway's fingers tightened over the gem, as he pulled it close to his person and growled animalistically at the other.

"Chill, I was just looking…" the Dane tensed.

Just that quickly, Norway pounced on Denmark. The jewel was his latest treasure of domination, in getting close to it, the Dane threatened to usurp his power unwittingly. Norway took him by his hair and started beating his head into the ground in time with his shrieking, "Mine! Mine! Mine!"

"Ow! I– Ow! Nor– Sorry! Ow!" Norway's weight, sitting full-forcedly on his chest, quickly began to suffocate him, in addition to having his head smashed into the floor.

Norway had lost all control. Just one small thing could set him off and he no longer differentiated between friend and foe, and had almost no control over himself. Denmark's cries never reached his ears.

Sweden came running when he heard the combined screams of his friends. Quickly observing the situation, he took a hold of the Norwegian from the back, who immediately turned his attack on him. "Run," was the sole advice he spoke to the Dane, right before the smaller toppled him as well.

Sweden knew from experience that he couldn't overpower Norway by sheer strength. He knew he couldn't talk him out of it, because he wasn't really there anymore, he had gone berserk. He could, though, hold him at bay for a little while and hope he tired out. Norway had him on the ground, but he held his flailing arms by the wrists, averting every blow that would have otherwise struck him.

"Stop! Make it stop!" Denmark cried from the short distance he had scrambled to.

Denmark was fully aware that the attack wasn't personal, that his dear friend had only lost his senses. 'It' wasn't really Norway, 'it' was a full blown fury that came over him and took control of his body, and 'it' was terrifying, but he had come to accept that 'it' wasn't his friend. Sure, his friend was also power-hungry and cruel in his means of getting what he wanted, but he wasn't a senseless _thing_ that was entirely out of control. The line was thin, but definitely existed between a violent boy and the bloodthirsty monster.

Norway would soon tire out once his attack was diverted. His strength didn't lie in superior physical power but in crazed adrenaline. In holding his own against a stronger force, he wore himself to complete exhaustion.

Recent events had been strengthening him however, and yet also weakening him. The nation had become unified — not without huge conflict — which had granted him strength, yet the constant tearing apart of the barely held together kingdom wasn't without effect. Internally, he was nearly at war with himself at times. His craze for power only intensified. He grew suspicious of everyone around him.

Despite the chaos of his home in the cycle of unification and division, Norway was still a feared force. He had made nearly everyone he came in contact with an enemy, and the very few who still saw him as a friend held the same hope as his enemies: the fall he would have to eventually have. After all, once one had reached a pinnacle, there is nowhere but down to go. His power would one day fade, his inexplicable wrath would one day be extinguished, and the jarring of a sudden decline would have to wake him to his senses. However, no one could topple him. He was too fearsome, too _fearless_. Despite every disadvantage he had, he was yet untouchable.

* * *

There was something spreading in Scandinavia: Christianity. Denmark had recently accepted this Rome-controlled religion that they had time and time again encountered in foreign lands, and it had long been creeping slowly into Sweden's culture. Even Norway's current king had proclaimed himself as Christian, though he wouldn't force it upon the nation and it was even debatable how strictly he followed it himself. Nevertheless, change was sweeping the Scandian trio.

Norway had grown tired of this ruler. The man didn't have the country's interests at heart and only considered his own selfish wants. Perhaps it was hypocritical for Norway himself to despise the man, but also, the people had grown sick of him. Rumors were spreading of a more suitable Norse king, and they wanted the change. Yet another loop of the cycle of revolt and at the assassination of the present ruler, the nation crowned a new king: Olav Tryggvason.

Upon coronation, the young nation took it upon himself to familiarize himself with the man, test the waters so to speak, and escort him throughout a land he now ruler but was yet unfamiliar with. Indeed, Olav had grown up away from the country and hadn't returned until called to be their king.

"You may address me as Norway, my lord. I am at your command." There was a certain soullessness to the customary introduction. How many kings had he seen, and how many so far had failed him? Every one of them.

Olav eyed the young man with curiosity and yet coldness. Still young himself, he was accustomed over a harsh life to distrust and having to fight for everything himself. In a way, looking at the nation was like looking at his younger self in a mirror. The same harsh gaze passed from both and rested upon the other. "I am honored, Norway, that you called me." The words were every bit as cutting as the smaller's usually were, a hint of bitterness behind them.

"You know, if you aren't grateful for this power, I can have it taken right back. Don't take my subservience for granted."

A smirk curled on Olav's lips. "Oh, dear Norway… You really are what they say, aren't you? You're cruel, you're willing to fight for anything, a survivor through and through… As long as our interests align, we're perfectly suited for one another."

"Though I am no monster. I deserve everything I've taken. As a Norseman, that should have been born into you and you should understand…unless your allegiances lie elsewhere." The bitter words were returned justly. The two were trying each other, seeing where they stood, finding out just how far they would have to bend. "I know that you never returned to me, even after you came of age. You've spent almost your entire life away from your fatherland, and yet…you are still so very Norwegian. You have my spirit."

"I may have a Norseman's spirit, but am I just the same? No, and you will bow to me. I am rightful ruler here and you are but my humble servant."

"We'll see," Norway scoffed. "May you be in the gods' favor."

As the nation turned away, Olav narrowed his eyes in spite. The gods? He knew he was in God's favor, after all.

_"You will be a renowned king, and do celebrated deeds. Many men will you bring to faith and baptism, and both to your own and others' good."_

_One day, dear Norway, one day…_

* * *

"Convert, filthy pagan!"

"I will never!"

Several of Olav's strongest men were attempting to hold Norway in place, but given the rage he had thrown himself into, it was proving to be a nearly impossible task. Pulling a dagger, he began to carve into a pillar, with three men much bigger than the physically young teen struggling to hold him back.

"Stop that! Make him stop!"

Upon the king's orders, they pried the knife from Norway, party through a runic curse, but not before he dug the blade into his own skin. Dipping a finger in the blood that quickly spilled from the wound in his ivory skin, he restarted the same inscription with the makeshift ink.

"No, stop it! Cover the wound!"

The men sprung into action to fulfill Olav's command. Another plan failed, Norway reverted to kicking and screaming curses, flailing violently to knock off all but one of the men holding him captive, hurling angry words across the sky.

Olav approached the nation, taking his head between his hands, despite the attempts to bite at and knock him away. Maliciously, he grinned at the boy. "What did I say? You bow to me, _Norway_. I am rightful king!"

"Never!" he shrieked back, hissing the words into the man's face. "You will ruin everything! My existence! I hold more power than you will ever!"

The powerful glare he sent was cutting into Olav, as if it held that cursed, pagan magic within it. "Blindfold him!" he ordered, to cut off any form of attack he could use.

A large scuffle was needed to restrain Norway even for a few seconds, costing the lives of two men as others stepped in to fill their places. He managed to break free and ran blindly, hysterically, clawing at the wrap over his eyes that had been tied tight enough to begin to cut into his cheeks. Incoherent screeches were all that came from his mouth.

Eventually, the crazed state wore off as the boy collapsed from sheer exhaustion. He wasn't able to fight it anymore.

"Ha, you really are a _berserk_."

He could hear the disdain in that last word. True, they had grown to despise those called Odin's warriors, because they were simply a danger to all. Norway had avoided the stigma as their nation only. That tone of voice cut into him. The words were the last he heard before he fainted.

When he next awoke, he couldn't tell how much time had passed. The cloth was still tightly tied over his eyes, so couldn't see where he was either. The blindfold was cutting into his skin, it must have already created wounds.

Unknowing where he was or what was happening, and unable to do anything at all or change the situation, he felt his heart begin to race in panic. For the first time in his life, he felt cold fear, terror. Droplets of sweat were running his skin already, his body slightly quivering. And then he realized… He had to have looked entirely like every victim he had sneered at before.

"Is anyone there?"

His voice came out a little more shrill and desperate than he intended. Mentally, he scolded himself. He was a most powerful nation, why was he reacting like this? But maybe the situation called for it. After all, he was in the dark, figuratively and literally. No! Why was he beginning to fear a human, a _mortal_?

"So you've awoken…Norway."

That voice! It angered him. He could clearly imagine the man hovering over him with a sneering chuckle. How dare he!

"I hope you now recognize the order of authority. Bring him here."

Norway felt his body being lifted to his feet, although gently. The two pairs of hands nudged him forward. They came to a stop, but kept their hands close in case the boy decided to bolt.

"Would you take a look at that face?" A chuckle. "No really, we mustn't cause unnecessary damage. He is important after all. Remove the blindfold."

His eyes slammed shut as light suddenly hit them, wincing as the cloth brushed over one of the wounds. He resolved to keep a steely expression.

"You will accept Jesus Christ–"

"No," Norway was quick to cut off.

"'No'? If you refuse, I will have to force you."

"You cannot make me. I am not a coward who will leave my gods simply because I am threatened."

Olav stood, staring down at the teen with a vicious smile. "_You_ cannot just say 'no' to your king. I am fully ready and able to force you…"

"Nothing will change my mind!" he shouted.

"We'll see."

The next day came and the next day and the next, on and on, without antagonism from the king. Norway began to believe that he had out-willed the man without much of a fight. Of course, one man cannot simply change a nation so easily. The two had even developed a friendship and enjoyed each other's company when the subject of religion was left alone. They were remarkable similar in personality and held common goals.

"I don't wish to be at odds with you forever, Norway. I have wishes for you, dreams that will make both of us even greater than we are today. However, we simply cannot continue to disagree."

Norway humphed.

"Aren't you tired of this? The country is constantly in turmoil, you've had to submit to Sweden and Denmark… Isn't it humiliating? Simply being feared and powerful is not enough."

"What can be done? Us Norsemen are born with the will to fight, and we turn on ourselves. It is a born nature to the nation. I should know."

"One day, I, no, we…we will rule over therm, we will rule Sweden and Denmark… But we must be united, we must see the same vision…" He abruptly turned a sharp gaze to the boy, his voice lowering threateningly. "That is why you must be Christian as me. It was already decided–"

"Stop." Norway rose to his feet. "No. That is where you are mistaken."

Olav stood as well. "I guess you've said 'no' one too many times now…dear." His face twisted into an entirely familiar smirk. "No matter how many centuries old you really are, you're still so naive. The consequences of living in a _child's_ body, perhaps?"

He wanted to be angry, but the terror struck in the bottom of his stomach again. Olav had pulled a knife and begun to run it slowly up his sternum to his collar, stopping just short of his neck, easily cutting through the thin shirt and digging into his skin.

"What should I so with you to break you, hm?" The sneer in his words was apparent. "Just how fragile are you?"

In defiance, Norway endured the incision with very few flinches. But as he looked up into that man's mocking face, he could only see a mirror image of himself. And it was terrifying.

Unsatisfied with the lack of reaction, Olav resorted to more harrowing means. He ordered coals straight from the fire to be brought immediately, taunting the nation as they waited, holding the knife steadfastly to his throat.

"What would you like? Dear Norway?"

He was too shaken to respond, trying with everything within him to keep from trembling. It was all hitting him at once. The dread he had stricken so many with, the horrors that had taken place at his hands, the sheer helplessness of being paralyzed in fear.

At first it was once burning rock forced into his mouth. He screeched as the sensitive skin was seared, tears tumbling from his eyes uncontrollably. And the pain…so much pain…that he was responsible for. Then another coal was pushed into his agape, wailing mouth, resetting the cycle of agony. Blood was now running over his lips, spilling onto the ground and the already stained clothing. At this point, he wouldn't have been surprised if his tears turned to blood.

A third coal was lifted and held menacingly in front of him. In sudden panic, he jerked himself free, spitting the rocks from his mouth and slurred a few words through his damaged mouth.

"I… You win. I give up."

Olav dropped the tongs holding the coal, his face suddenly brightened. "You will?"

Norway only nodded, hunched over in writhing misery. He could have swore he stared into the face of his own death and it was not what he wanted to see.

"You'll convert?!" the young king repeated again.

"Help…" was the single word that came from the nation's mouth, as he began to cough violently, blood sputtering across the vicinity. His pride had died, and he called out for the one thing he had wanted and needed for all of these years without realizing it.

Though Olav's rule was very short, he left a large imprint on the nation. Just a mere few years after being heinously tortured by him, Norway openly mourned him when he was lost. Olav Tryggvason had been more than a king, he had been a mentor, a friend. From that day forward, he would never lay a finger on anyone again and strove to control his violent temper to prevent himself from reverting to his roots. "I've changed my ways," he would tell anyone and everyone. He grew afraid that he would be eternally hated. He clearly saw the mark he had left on all of those around him and vowed to somehow to make it right, standing by their side even as it hurt and destroyed himself.

The viking age didn't die when Norway accepted Christianity, but it severely shrank. The new generations weren't raised to kill or be killed, weren't taught that they had to sacrifice their own lives in war or be sent to Hel. Even for a short while, the country had united, though it fell to ruins again soon. In five short years, one man had forced a turning point onto a nation that was on a path of self-destruction, and Norway would be eternally thankful, forever missing his hero.

* * *

**A/N: No really, in my opinion, Olav Tryggvason (Olav I of Norway) is the most interesting person in viking era history. eue Even more interesting than Egill Skallagrímsson (saying something coming from a hardcore Icelandophile? Maybe.)  
**

**"You will be a renowned king, and do celebrated deeds. Many men will you bring to faith and baptism, and both to your own and others' good." is part of the legendary prophecy that made Olav convert to Christianity.**

**Er…I think that's all the notes I have for this chapter.  
**

**It was sad to write it, I always hate writing the final chapter of something because I know I will miss it. unu  
**

**~Butter~  
**


End file.
